


insomnia

by brandywine421



Series: circadian [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Iron Fist (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Defenders (Marvel TV), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Casual Sex, Comfort, Insomnia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:21:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21828115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brandywine421/pseuds/brandywine421
Summary: Sometimes.  He couldn't sleep.  It wasn't a problem, it wasn't a complication or a symptom necessary for discussion during one of their tri-annual interventions - Foggy stopped wearing the bad cologne, Karen stopped blowing the Punisher at lunch and he stopped taking batons to gunfights - his lack of sleep didn't need to be on anyone's radar because it wasn't an issue.Not sleeping wasn't a problem - but sleep could be problematic.  He wouldn't go so far as to call it panic-inducing, but he couldn't deny that moment of disorientation, that snip of a second between exhaustion and rest, made his chest seize with anxiety.Sometimes he couldn't sleep.But sometimes, he tried.*5 times Matt was a thot (+ that other time.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Matt Murdock, Loki/Matt Murdock, Luke Cage/Matt Murdock, Matt Murdock/Danny Rand, Matt Murdock/Franklin "Foggy" Nelson/Marci Stahl, Matt Murdock/Sam Wilson, Ward Meachum/Matt Murdock
Series: circadian [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1733647
Comments: 14
Kudos: 130





	1. Chapter 1

Sometimes. He couldn't sleep. It wasn't a problem, it wasn't a complication or a symptom necessary for discussion during one of their tri-annual interventions - Foggy stopped wearing the bad cologne, Karen stopped blowing the Punisher at lunch and he stopped taking batons to gunfights - his lack of sleep didn't need to be on anyone's radar because it wasn't an issue.

Not sleeping wasn't a problem - but sleep could be problematic. He wouldn't go so far as to call it panic-inducing, but he couldn't deny that moment of disorientation, that snip of a second between exhaustion and rest, made his chest seize with anxiety.

Sometimes he couldn't sleep.

But sometimes, he tried.

* * *

  
Sometimes. He put on soft, leather gloves that covered his fingers, muting the skin against the smooth insides - not ropes or brass knuckles, but expensive, maybe designer label gloves.

It was like silencing an entire section in a symphony to make the other instruments sing louder. It was another kind of anonymity - a freedom from the grind of the hunt to enjoy the rush of the chase.

He could shake a woman's hand without knowing her preference of nail polish, or punch a man in the chin without learning his brand of shaving cream.

He could trade banter with a tall, breathlessly lean - in the suave swagger swerve kind of way - and accept drinks with shielded fingers. The man was sharp, with his wit and his angles against the thudding bass landscape of the bar.

He kept the gloves on, splayed between the Brit's delicate, elegant fingers to hold his hands off - he wouldn't be controlled, he wouldn't be steered when he was the one driving. The man's cheek, mouth - languishing tongue and teeth buried in his throat - his skin was cold as ice, colder than death - with a thundering heartbeat to mismatch. He didn't want to touch, not when he could scent and listen and taste - the man shuddered, shimmered when he finally took his length into his mouth and Matt closed his eyes.

"Stop, I will not - ravish you in this kind of tawdry tavern - "

He let the cock slide from his mouth with a 'pop', slick against his glove - wow, he'd need new gloves soon - they were going to get 'tawdry' - before he spoke. "Not planning on being 'ravished'." The man slid his fingers across his lips and he momentarily reconsidered his planning approach.

"You seem to enjoy our - unique contrast - and I have access to a - I think it's called a hot-tub."

He lost the gloves at the hotel, but left loose-limbed and lazy after a cacophony of sensations after an hour in the hot tub with Frosty.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

  
Sometimes. He put on a knit cap, warm and stretchy, pulled down to his eyebrows and not over his ears so his glasses fit in place but his head and hair protected. He left his coat's collar curled around his neck, draped with a scarf or simply tucked in place.

He walked down gentrified sidewalks lined with out of season flowers dying in window boxes, sniffing out coffee shops with open mic poetry nights and overpriced microbrews he wouldn't order.

Sometimes he found an academic, hands spattered with papercuts, or a dropout, fingers stained with coffee from his job behind the bar.

Sometimes, like today, it would be a burned out businessman hiding from the horrors of a high rise in a nostalgia and caffeine-fueled cafe where his laptop wasn't out of place but his bluetooth was denied.

He shared a napkin, the man shared a joke and they both shared the backseat of a luxury sedan in a private parking space in the best part of the city.

He went shopping for a hipster and found a sad-eyed spitfire of a man with legs that were too long to straddle comfortably but fit perfectly around his waist in the confined backseat. They made out like teenagers, like the listless overpriced poets paying rent with their parents' money and making beer money with overplayed pain.

He sucked sloppy hickeys into the man's bared throat and thrust into his spit-licked fingers and tried to get his hands on more skin without undressing - backseat banging was a fully-clothed activity.

He climbed out of the car at the bus station, jumping at the jaunty honk as he pulled away with the taste of espresso and benzos on his lips and a new cashmere scarf tucked into his jacket.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Sometimes. He put on sneakers, worn and ragged, not boots worked into silence, but _comfortable_ , squeaky against clean floors and ready for a game of tag or tackle instead of a balls out brawl.

Luke and Danny were usually around, knew where a gym was and where they could find some privacy. The friendly camaraderie and shit-talking was relaxing in a way he'd never been able to enjoy growing up. Maybe he didn't tag in the basketball games, but Danny would ride the bench and narrate the game for him. It usually ended in an attempted ambush and a wrestling match with extra kicking - but - it was nice, friendly and well, fun.

He didn't have much experience with fun.

Breaking out of Luke's oversized and overpowered hold brought him a rush of success and snapping Danny out of one of his frivolous spin kicks made him laugh out loud more than once.

Sometimes Luke would invite him home, offer him a spot in the game of musical beds he had going with Jess and Claire - as if to smooth the edges from the fact they'd lasted longer in each other's beds than in Luke's. Sometimes he'd decline and buy him drinks instead, kiss him in the shadows and grind their bodies together until they ruined their sweats and he went home with thick fingermarks through his hair. Luke wasn't single, not the way Matt needed him to be.

Sometimes Danny would linger, all flushed cheeks and practiced earnestness - as if Matt hadn't felt his hard-on for the past hour, as if he hadn't licked a stripe of sweat off his cheek ten minutes ago to make him laugh. Danny would linger and they'd decide to shower once the gym cleared out.

They had to wait because Danny was noisy as fuck, so loud that Matt didn't need the steam of the open shower to map his body, the lines of his humming muscles, the power pulsing under his skin. He'd bite his lip when Matt grabbed his thighs, bracing him against the wall and pushing inside, tight and hot and - he'd whimper and his chest would flutter like the dragon he couldn't see but was told painted his chest.

Sometimes, Danny took him from behind, bent with the water streaming through his hair and blanketing his face while he grunted, deep and low and strong, hitting his spot like a target until Matt was panting in perfect sync with him - chi or chemistry or whatever - sometimes it was just fucking fun.

Danny always chased him home after, Matt's sneakers skidding across rooftops with laces dangling over fire escapes with the Iron Fist on his heels.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

  
Sometimes. Foggy picked up his groceries, fresh staples to stock his pantry and shelves and his 'high maintenance' toiletries for the bathroom. He liked to say it was saving Matt money for the delivery and tip, but he knew better.

Matt didn't protest, usually, he needed Foggy in his life too much to dare tell him to get his mitts off his stuff - Foggy was his stuff, he knew all his secrets. Foggy knew Matt.

So when Foggy put the box, set of boxes, that belonged in the bedroom drawer on the kitchen counter instead, it wasn't quite an intervention but it was - something. Condoms and lube didn't belong in the kitchen, they almost didn't belong in the bedroom, they belonged tucked into pockets and the back of cabinets hidden behind towels.

He took off his glasses and wiped his face, preemptively guilty for whatever the conversation was going to bring today.

Foggy caught his wrist. "I should call this your mid-life crisis and make you feel old - but - " he strummed his soft fingers down his cheek. "I remember how your brain works, sometimes anyway."

Fogs knew him always.

"You having trouble sleeping again?" Matt leaned into the hug, accepting that he needed it, they both needed it - sometimes.

"Danny and Luke gave me weighted blankets," he admitted into Foggy's shoulder.

"Oh, re-gift those to me and Marci if you haven't used them," he laughed. "You brought anyone home?"

"Never."

Foggy stroked his hair, sighing thoughtfully and brushing across the nape of his neck with warm comforting fingers. "Not even a number?"

"Don't judge me, I'm trying."

"I remember. Maybe you should bring someone home, even if it's a friend - "

"Don't - "

"I know, Matt," Foggy hummed. "Just think about it. We still leave our window open."

"Marci clings too much," Matt sighed, pulling away. "But thanks."

"You just don't like being in the middle - "

"Not starting another spoon argument with you, Fogs. I'm fine."

Foggy paused, sliding the glasses back on Matt's nose. "Sometimes. But you have to sleep, not just try."

"I will."

"Our window is always open, Matt. Bathrooms and backseats be damned - we have a guest room, a couch, a place always - " Foggy started.

" _Hey_. I know, I remember," Matt promised.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Sometimes. He opened the lockbox in the floorboard of the month, moved regularly because sometimes he was paranoid. He slid on a ring, one of his father's - maybe a class ring to show off his diploma, maybe from a fight he won somewhere legitimate - maybe a shiny trinket pocketed from a random lost and found - it didn't matter because it belonged to his dad and sometimes - he needed to remember his dad.

He wasn't looking for a fight if he was wearing rings, especially not one of his dad's. It was an anchor, his reminder that he could wear himself out just as thoroughly with a vibrant conversation that didn't have to end with frenetic skin contact and orgasm.

Sometimes, in college, he'd spend hours arguing with Marci, debating topics neither of them cared about - Matt to earn new frustrated sounds from Foggy and Marci to learn new expressions of disgust - there was friendly shoving and insult contests that no one ever won before they had to call draw. Marci liked to look more than touch, but Matt didn't mind - not when she'd let him into their bed, not when she learned that she could make their codependency work for her, that she had to if she wanted Foggy. Sometimes, he thought she understood his habits better than Foggy - she watched, distant and detached enough from Matt's raw need and Foggy's open heart.

Sometimes, she called it skin hunger, told him to go on a binge - that he'd been been starving himself of human connection since his daddy died and he'd turned it into a problem - too proud to ask for a hug but always willing to blow a stranger in a bathroom stall - sometimes - Foggy made her stop talking before she made sense.

He wasn't on a binge, he was - trying. Trying to sleep, trying to move on, trying to be a part of the real world again - trying.

But he wasn't in college anymore, he wasn't a kid that was allowed to fuck up and make mistakes - trying didn't count for shit once he hit thirty - trying meant he'd failed and continued to fail.

So he put on one of his Dad's rings - only one - and pushed it over the bumps of his ruined knuckles until it was as snug as he could make it. He'd never have his father's bulk, never have his thick strong hands but the cool metal warmed against his skin and he felt like - maybe he didn't need to binge.

Sometimes, he'd been told, moderation was key.

He found a quiet bar playing mainstream, inoffensive music at a low volume with a healthy thrum of conversation without raised voices. Trivia wasn't a draw for him, but it was a great background for his oversensitive ears.

Long, lithe and lean became a theme when he accepted a beer, a name and a handshake from Sam, all smiles and swagger. He had an easy laugh and a warm - controlled, regimented - balance to the way he carried himself. Soldier or Mama's Boy - a good brother or son to someone that gave and received love without regret. 

They talked through three rounds of trivia and four rounds of drinks, Sam's hand on his knee and his soft laughter a balm over his nerves.

"I'd like to invite you home, but I shouldn't," Sam said, thigh pressed against Matt's now that the bar's full. "I'm rebounding and I don't want - "

He leaned his head on the man's shoulder to get his lips close to his ear. "Rain check?"

"We could just talk."

He dared a kiss to his jaw before pulled back. "Nah, I don't have that kind of self-control. Alone with you, might be a mistake."

"Wouldn't want it to be a mistake," Sam smiled, squeezing his knee before removing his hand and the temptation of touch to get his phone. "Can I get your number?"

He meant to give it to him, but he didn't need eyes to know that Sam was distracted by his phone by something other than a contact list - that a rebound would have been a distraction from whatever was on that phone.

Sometimes, best laid plans and all that. 

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

Sometimes. He made mistakes. A kick too high to land, a punch too low to duck, a jump too far to make. An invitation too sweet to skip.

Sometimes. He didn't have a plan for the night when he went out, no gloves or rings or soft things - just an itch under his skin, a buzz in his ears, all the internal alarms pinging that he needed - needed something - to switch it off so he could rest. Not sleep, just - rest. 

Jeans, pool hall, hoodie over his ball cap - sometimes that was enough - but he made sure to go outside Hell's Kitchen. Not too close to the colleges, not too close to the jail and definitely not with more than three TVs tuned to sports channels. He had standards. _(Sometimes.)_

He didn't find a fight, or hustle any curious assholes out of money. He turned down a guy with too much cologne, an asshole who tried to steer him instead of guide and a pretty woman that seemed to think his blindness meant she needed to speak loudly and clearly so he would understand.

He settled in for a night alone, plotted following the dealer slinging dime bags behind the club three blocks away before he left the borough, but a muscular wall of a man bumped into him and dropped gracefully onto the stool despite his feigned clumsiness.

"' _Scuse_ me," he slurred but Matt could tell he wasn't drunk, not enough to slow his heartbeat or let loose an accent other than 'generic American'. If he was Daredevil, he'd judge the guy as some kind of spy or soldier that had trained himself free, and that wouldn't even count the cyborg arm he'd felt against his back. Misty's arm wasn't as heavy and didn't rise past her elbow, but this dude was carrying some weight.

Matt was curious enough and shifted, checking - _damn_. He turned, making sure his boot kicked against the guy's stool to distract him. "Pickpocketing blind guys, _nice_ ," he said, tucking his own wallet back into his jeans and waving the thief's credit card at the bartender in fair trade.

"Shit, I thought you were faking," he said and - actually sounded apologetic.

He tilted his head forward to mimic 'looking' over the rim of his shades and the man immediately went flush with embarrassment. "Asshole."

"Yeah," he sighed. Matt dropped the wallet in front of him when the bartender brought them fresh drinks. "Thought I could get something other than a hangover out of this night out, maybe shame a scammer or something."

"Kind of passive-aggressive, isn't it?"

The guy shrugged. "Probably. You haven't called the cops, though."

"Because you're paying my tab," Matt replied, raising his bottle. The man clinked and dropped the drunken slouch like pulling off a mask.

Sometimes. He made bad decisions.

Three beers later, he knew James was possibly from Brooklyn, had a wicked sense of humor and was hiding some heavy baggage behind his bangs.

"I don't want to go home yet," he admitted. "Been arguing with my ex."

"Recent ex?" Matt asked.

"Matter of opinion, but, hell, he's my best friend. We were in love - when we were kids, ages ago."

"Shit happens, though. People change," Matt said.

James raised both hands, gesturing his agreement. " _Right_. We just found each other again and - it's great, he's still the same blue eyed bastard I fell for back then, but - **I'm** not the same. I'd still die for the guy, I'll always have his back, the fucker, but - I can't be with him. He's got this great guy and - they're so - fucking good together, you know?"

"No. But I can imagine," he sighed.

"He almost ruined this awesome thing he's got going because he thought that I would want him back but I don't - he doesn't listen. He doesn't get it."

Matt drained his bottle and cut himself off. He was already tipsy enough to talk which was a dangerous place. "Had a thing with my best friend, ages ago. He's my business partner now, so I see him every day. Think about it - every day. We don't fit, not anymore, maybe we never did. Doesn't mean I don't love him, that I wouldn't give my life - anything - to make him happy - but us being together as the people we are now? Definitely wouldn't make him happy."

Two hands circled his wrists, one flesh and one gloved. "You get it."

"He'll always be my best friend, the closest I'll ever come to having a brother - but his wife is better for him than I could've ever been. She won't get him killed."

James tightened and then released his fingers from his wrists. "And you would? Damn, I wish I could invite you home."

"Too bad I don't invite people home that don't give their real names," Matt tested. 

"You never asked for my name, Sweetheart, you skimmed it off the card with those magic fingers," James said, waving for the tab.

Sometimes. Matt was a dumbass.

* * *

"Your five o'clock shadow game is on point."

"Says a guy who shaves his chest."

"Would you believe me if I said it was for medical reasons?"

He mouthed over a scar crossed over a thicker scar. "Absolutely not," he said, darting his tongue over a stiff nipple. "You're probably just vain."

Fingers pushed into his hair as he appreciated the rumble of laughter against his lips. "Not gonna say anything about the arm?"

He ran his hand over the thin, humming scales of the appendage. "Feels good, tastes weird."

"Come on," he laughed, gently flipping him onto his back and straddling his knees. "Ask your questions."

"When you work out, do you worry your flesh arm is going to get more pumped than your metal one?" Matt let out a hiss when he kissed a pattern across his thigh - scars - and cupped his balls before taking him in his mouth.

* * *

_"You overslept? That's bullshit - number one, you don't go home with one night stands and two - you don't sleep - so - "_

Matt vaguely recognized that voice, but the lecture sounded suspiciously like something Foggy would say. He raised his cheek from the pillow and accidentally caught Bucky's attention when he clued in that it _was_ the same guy. "I think he turned me down last week."

"What an asshole," Bucky laughed after a long moment.

_"Wait - who are you with? Please tell me you're not in a cheap motel - "_

"Sam. Relax. I met a boy and I was going to raid his fridge to make breakfast until you so helpfully woke him up."

"I'll start coffee," Matt said but Bucky splayed his metal hand on his chest to keep him in place.

He spoke softly, phone lowered. "I can pull a walk of shame, if you want."

Matt shook his head. "No, stay, but I'm never meeting your friends."

"Absolutely agreed," Bucky laughed leaning in for a peck on the lips and giving Matt an opening for a deeper taste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kind kudos!


End file.
